The Battle
by CoriOreo
Summary: Oneshot, moviebased. Family members protect and make sacrifices for one another, even ultimate sacrifice. It's just what they do.


**A/N: This fic was mostly a practice for me in working with descriptiveness, but I figured, what the heck, so I'm posting it as a oneshot. Sorry if it seems rushed at all; I tried to keep the pacing normal, but it's sort of hard for me to tell, because, you know, I'm the author, and I've read it so many times I can't really tell the difference anymore. The story takes place during the final battle of _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe,_ just before the Witch is about to stab Edmund. I'm sure there are some parts of the story that are inconsistent with the film, but I'm typing the fic without reference. Oh well.**

**Disclaimer: C.S. Lewis owns the story, Disney owns the movie, and I own… Um, approximately nothing. : (**

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The Witch's sword flashed forward.

For half an instant, maybe less, time seemed to stand still for Peter. His mouth opened in a scream, but he wasn't sure whether there was any sound or not. The world disappeared; all that existed was the scene before his very eyes: Edmund, his little brother, his own flesh and blood, about to be _killed._

He didn't understand what made him do it. He wasn't sure what prompted him to move, and move as quickly as he did. He hadn't even known it was_ possible_ to travel at that rate of speed while decked out in full armor. All he could be certain of was the urge – the _need_ – to get Edmund out of the way.

It was like a dream, but so, so much more real. Time slowed to an impossible rate. Peter was running towards the Witch, brandishing his lion-headed sword, tasting on his lips the beginnings of a blood-curdling battle cry. But there was no time, no energy, to be spent on a yell. He wanted to conserve all the power he possibly could for what he needed to do.

He was there, next to his brother, in just moments. With force born of desperation, he slammed into his armor-plated elbow into Edmund's ribcage, sending him reeling backwards with a small yell of surprise, or pain, or perhaps both. Peter glanced back for only a second – no, much, much less than a second – to see him fall to the ground just to the side of where he stood. Then he turned his head…

There was a sparkle of sunlight reflected off gleaming steel, a ringing of shining metal slicing the air clean in two –

And the blade – the blade that the Witch held in her pale, cold hands, the blade that had been meant for Edmund – shot forward, burying itself halfway into Peter's chest.

The young man's eyes widened and he took a shuddering gasp, dropping his own sword to the ground. He was in shock; there was no pain, but a sudden, chilling numbness that weakened him, drained his strength. He fell to his knees as the Witch let go of the hilt with a sneer on her face.

Peter groped at the handle of the sword dazedly, trying to pull it away. As he made a feeble tug at it, a sudden, horrible agony shot through his body, up his limbs, to the very center of him. He cried out weakly, doubling over with pain. And the cold! The blade, he realized for the first time, was so very, very icy… Frozen steel with an aura of death about it. Darkness began to creep around the very edges of his vision; he tried in vain to blink it away…

Still clutching at the blade lodged in between his ribs at a grotesque angle, he felt around in the scrubby grass for his own sword, trying to find it. He glanced all about, but it was so, so hard to keep focused on anything… The air was growing dim, and it was becoming physically painful to keep his eyes open anymore. But he was not going to let go; he was not going to give up just yet.

Suddenly, his hand connected with the hilt of his sword. Gritting his teeth, he pulled it towards himself with fumbling fingers. With every ounce of willpower he had, he thrust the blade into the blood-spattered ground and began to haul himself back up to his feet. It was almost impossible; as he struggled, he was finding it harder and harder to bring air into his lungs, as though they had suddenly lost their ability to function, making him endure sharp jabs of pain as he forced them to. But finally, he managed to heave himself back up onto shaking legs. Still clutching the hilt of the sword in a death grip, he glanced up at the Witch through the darkness that laced the world around him.

She laughed humorlessly, raising her closed eyes triumphantly to the heavens. Peter, still shivering violently, weak with pain that felt as though it was slicing him right in two, slowly, very slowly, shook his head. No. This was not going to happen.

_She will not_ _take Narnia!_

With this single thought, the young man felt strength flood through his body. In a sudden, explosive effort, he yanked his blade from the ground. Standing straight, he held the sword aloft with trembling hands, the golden lion head on the hilt glimmering brightly. _No,_ he continued to repeat in his head, a rhythmic chant, _no, no, no. She will _never_ take Narnia!_

_I will make sure of that._

With a roar of exertion, he took a single step and swung the sword forward slowly. The Witch stopped laughing and lowered her head. As she saw the steel moving towards her, she snarled and stepped away quickly. Peter's blade met nothing but air in its curving arc, and he staggered as it lost momentum, falling towards the ground.

The Witch smiled derisively at Peter. Striding towards him again as he stood, panting faintly, face screwed up with agony, she ever so gently placed a finger on the handle of the sword that was even now half-hidden in his chest. Her green eyes danced with malice as she looked him up and down.

"Did you really think you could win, little king?" she asked, still smiling sardonically. "Did you?"

Peter made no move to answer. With a last, feeble attempt, he tried to raise his blade once more, but the Witch stopped him, knocking it from his hand effortlessly. She shook her head, as if she was almost disappointed with him, and carefully, slowly, wrapped her pale fingers around the hilt of her sword.

Peter glanced down at her hand, realizing in an instant what she was going to do. With a plummeting feeling in his stomach, he looked up again – just as the Witch whispered, in her most softly dangerous voice:

"Goodbye, dearest Son of Adam. Goodbye."

And without hesitation, she pulled the steel from his chest, twisting it, wrenching it upwards with horrible force.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut and screamed with agony as the blade was removed. The second it was gone the blood began to flow freely, staining and rusting the chain mail that had proved useless against the accursed steel. He dropped to his knees again, letting his sword fall to the ground once more, feeling as though the pain was piercing his very soul, tearing him limb-from-limb. He fell onto his back, clutching at his chest, biting his lips hard enough to make them bleed so that he would not cry out with the torture. He finally lifted his head a fraction of an inch, squinting hard through tears to look into the eyes of the Witch. What he saw there, if only for an instant, was not even remotely human; it was an exultant, animalistic gleam of triumph. She had won; nothing could possibly take Narnia from her now.

Suddenly, a deep, rich roar cut through Peter's fading world like the sword that he had been stabbed with. He turned his head to the side slowly, weakly – and his vision was filled with one of the most magnificent sights he had ever witnessed.

Aslan, the Great Lion, stood atop the high stony ridge, the sunlight gleaming off of his majestic mane, eyes filled with fire and ice, mouth open in a warlike snarl. And then, there, next to him, were two people whom Peter was sure he could see still better than Aslan, two people who appeared crystal clear to him, even through the darkness that veiled the skies and confused his mind:

Susan and Lucy.

They stood together, by the true King of Narnia, their hands resting on his back, cloaks flapping in the warm, battle-tainted breeze. At the sight of them, Peter's heart suddenly gave a great leap of joy, an involuntary tremor, and finally stopped altogether.

The final thing he ever saw was before his eyes at that very moment: His king and his sisters, together in the golden sunshine, simply the most glorious sight to ever grace the land of Narnia or any other land under the stars. And then his head fell back onto the grass, the blackness swiftly enveloped the world, the battlefield disappeared, and there was no sound, no movement, no _anything._ The last picture that flashed through the mind of Peter Pevensie – not King Peter, or Sir Peter Wolf's-Bane, knight of Narnia, but just _Peter Pevensie_ – was that of his mother, standing at the train station, asking him to take care of his siblings, to keep them safe… And as it did, he felt a stab of terrible, twisting guilt.

_I'm sorry,_ he thought just before he left, _I'm so sorry, Mum. I've failed you. _

_I'm sorry._

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Edmund watch in horror as the Witch wrenched the blade from between Peter's ribs. The boy let out a strangled "No!" but his words were lost, buried under the screams of agony that ripped from his older brother's throat.

He saw Peter fall to the ground, apparently drained – of strength, of hope, of everything. Edmund tried in vain to blink away tears, but they spilled from his eyes unchecked. Scrambling to his feet, fumbling for his sword that lay only inches away among the scraggly blades of grass, still trying to hold back a sob of fury, he started towards the Witch, who stood smirking over the shuddering body of the young man at her feet. He had just begun to take a few staggering steps towards her when –

The roar of a lion tore the air in two like the cry of a mythic beast of old, summoning the angels and the gods. Edmund looked up, startled, eyes wide with shock. What? How could it be?

Aslan stood at the top of the rocky peak, deep, chocolaty growls rolling from his throat. He glared down at the gully that lay below him and the battlefield beyond, taking in every detail of the world. Next to him there stood Susan and Lucy, the former with her bow drawn and at the ready. Edmund could hardly believe his eyes. Aslan was _dead!_ How might it be that he was here, now?

"Impossible…"

The word echoed Edmund's feelings so perfectly, he thought for a moment that he might have been the one who had uttered it. But no – as he glanced over to the side, he saw the White Witch, her own eyes trained intently on the Great Lion, filled with incredulity and wonder. It was she who had spoken.

As he continued to stare at her, however, she managed to tear her gaze from Aslan, and she saw him as well. There was no disbelief or awe in her eyes now; it was replaced with a sudden bloodlust. She curled her lip, tightened her grip on the sword in her hand and took a menacing step forward.

Edmund's first instinct was to move backwards, away from her. But he glanced down at her sword just a brief moment - and immediately did a double take. He felt a great jolt in his gut as reality quickly caught up with him.

The sword was stained with blood.

Peter's blood.

In an instant, all of Edmund's thoughts of fear evaporated, replaced by a burning sensation. _Blood!_ In his mind's eye, he saw the last few moments replay in his mind over and over again: Peter, slamming into him from the side to protect him from the Witch's blow… Peter, falling to the ground as the sword slid neatly between the plates of his armor… The Witch, laughing as her victim lay dying at her feet…

And then Edmund was moving, brandishing his sword, charging the Witch head-on, a scream of fury exploding from his throat. The Witch seemed to be caught off-guard for maybe half of a second; then her own sword was raised to ward off his blow. The blades met in midair with a deafening clash of steel; it was just as things had been moments before, the two of them battling one-on-one – but with one major difference. Before Peter had intervened, Edmund had been fighting in self-defense; now, he couldn't have cared less whether he lived or died. All he knew was a terrible fury, a feeling of intense hatred that fogged his judgment and clouded his mind. _Step, duck, parry, stab, step…_ The swordsmanship taught to him by the centaurs themselves became automatic in his mind, and he stopped thinking about it all together. There was just one thing he was sure of in life: The Witch had harmed Peter, harmed someone Edmund loved – and she must pay.

She must pay with her _life!_

With a roar unbefitting one as young as himself, Edmund swung his sword furiously at the Witch. She was not quite fast enough. The edge of the heavy sword nicked her pale, pale skin ever so slightly – and a small bead of blood appeared on her colorless forearm. She paused and stared down at the tiny gash, as if she could hardly believe it. Then, a growl grew in her throat, soft, barely audible at first, then rising steadily in volume. She lunged at Edmund with the ferocity and desperation of a wounded animal, knocking him to the ground.

Edmund cried out as he hit the earth, feeling a plate of the armor that he wore digging painfully into his shoulder blade. The Witch deftly kicked the sword out of his hand, then raised her own blade, preparing to stab him as she had Peter and finish it quickly, while a sort of madness sparkled in her eyes.

As the sword plunged down towards Edmund's chest, he found himself dully wondering why she would become so infuriated over such a tiny little cut. Wait – what? He was looking Death straight in the eye and all he could think about was irrelevant little questions like that? What was wrong with him?

And then –

At that moment, a million things seemed to happen at once. There was a blur of movement out of the corner of Edmund's eye as a great golden _something_ moved towards the two of them. The Witch glanced over towards it for an instant, and her eyes widened in shock as she let go of the sword, which was only inches away from the young boy's breastplate. It fell point-down to his chest, but without any driving force behind it merely bounced off the armor and fell sideways towards the ground. The entire universe seemed, for those few seconds, to at the same time be moving impossibly slowly and more quickly than ever conceivable. The Witch took half a step away from Edmund, still staring at the great golden Lion who was bounding across the grassy slope, his paws barely seeming to graze the grass as he ran, intent on the tall woman, fangs bared, eyes shining. Edmund turned his head a centimeter to the side and saw the Witch's sword lying next to him, stained with flowers of blood in full bloom. And suddenly, he realized what he needed to do.

He reached over and grabbed the hilt of the bloodied sword and quickly scrambled to his feet. He slowly lifted the sword over his head, hardly noticing that it was too heavy for him and nearly toppling over. But when the Witch saw his moving and getting up, she turned away from the Lion for just an instant – it was all Edmund needed.

As soon as she was facing him, he swung the sword forward.

It caught her right in the stomach.

The Witch's eyes widened and her jaw dropped. For a moment, she simply gaped disbelievingly at the sword, her _own sword,_ piercing her belly; then her eyes rolled up in her head as she fell backwards.

The Witch uttered not a sound. Her death was completely silent.

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Aslan, the Great Lion, strode next up next to Edmund, breathing slightly harder than normally. He gazed at the Witch's body with an expression on his face that was impossible to read, his golden eyes clouded over with some emotion that seemed well beyond the scope of what the human mind could possibly understand. Finally, he looked up at the young boy next to him. Edmund stood on the spot, looking straight ahead, staring at nothing. His limbs quivered, but he did not fall; he was paralyzed with shock. His mind still couldn't quite comprehend everything that had happened in the last few minutes; whereas before he had been quite overwhelmed by the flood of thoughts and memories rushing through him, he now felt quite empty, a sort of hollow ghost of himself. He wasn't really sure he remembered what his own name was right now.

Then there was a gentle pressure on his shoulder. Edmund started and looked up. Aslan had placed a single velveted paw on the boy's shoulder and stared at him now with those great, sad, solemn eyes. Edmund stared back, and suddenly found himself working hard to blink away tears. He turned away quickly, hastily wiping his eyes, ashamed to be crying in front of the King of Narnia. But Aslan did not seem to think less of him for it; he stayed where he was, a silently comforting presence.

For a few seconds, the Great Lion stayed there with Edmund, radiating wisdom and solace. From behind, there came frantic shouts of "Edmund! Edmund!" as his sisters called to him, rushing down the slope towards them. He glanced backwards for a second to see them sprinting downhill; then he looked away determinedly, not really wanting to face Susan and Lucy right now. He didn't _want_ to see them; he wanted to be _alone._

But then his eyes fell upon something that caused his heart to skip a beat and his mind to completely clear of all thoughts about his sisters. He felt a sort of horror well up inside him as he stared, transfixed, at a spot several dozen yards away down the hill, where there could be seen a body lying in the scraggly grass.

Some feet away from it, there lay a sword with the head of a lion on the hilt.

For an instant, the boy was frozen with shock. Then, just as his sisters came up next to him with their cries of relief and joy, he took off sprinting as fast as he could towards that spot. Blood rushed in his ears and the wind stung his eyes as he ran, but he didn't care. He ignored the confused shouts of Susan and Lucy; he just ran, ran as fast as he could to reach that place where a still body lay silently in the brown grass. He didn't know _why_ he needed to be there; he simply _did,_ so that he could somehow prove to himself that this was all just a bad dream –

And then someone grabbed at his arm. He staggered and tried to yank it away, but the person holding him back was too strong. He yelled incoherently, struggling to escape, but couldn't. He was pulled back, kicking shouting, as his older sister, who had caught up and was trying her best to hold him so that she could get an explanation, pleaded, "Ed, what's going on? What in the world is the matter with you?" Lucy ran up and stared at her older brother. "Edmund, what's the matter?" she cried. "Why are you running?"

Edmund might have stopped and calmed down enough to answer their questions, but he couldn't hear them; their voices alighted upon deaf ears. He scrambled to escape his sister's grasp; with a hoarse "NO!" he finally tore away and stumbled the last few yards to the place where the lion-headed sword rest peacefully on the ground. He lost his footing and fell to his knees, blinking through tears to finally reach the place he had sought. His throat closed up and he struggled to breathe as fresh tears washed away the old that had lingered on his lashes. He took a shallow gasp and whispered, "Gods, no, please…"

Susan and Lucy raced up next to their brother, who knelt in the grass, quivering like a leaf in a gale. Susan drew up next to Edmund, eyes trained on him. "Edmund, what in the world has gotten –" She went no further. With a little gasp, she stopped in mid-sentence, staring at the spot Edmund had been so intent on. She was stunned for a second, then weakly dropped to her knees beside to her brother.

Peter lay still in the grass, face-up, eyes closed, a small trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. Susan couldn't comprehend what in the world was happening. This wasn't true – it _couldn't_ be! Lucy, on the other side of Edmund, was still standing; she was shocked. She stared at Peter's pallid face, absolutely paralyzed. Slowly, she shook her head, a tiny bit at first, then more and more. "No," she breathed, then immediately dropped to the ground.

Edmund looked up at her as she began fumbling at her belt for a tiny crystal bottle that she kept there at all times. Her fingers were clumsy, but after a second she managed to pull the small thing from its pouch and quickly uncorked it. Edmund recognized that bottle; it was filled with a cordial that was supposed to heal even the most grievous injuries, which he knew because Lucy had demonstrated it on an injured bird found in the camp. Edmund watched her as a tiny flower of hope bloomed in his chest. Could it be possible…? _Is there still a chance?_

Susan, too, watched intently as her younger sister raised the bottle in a trembling hand and let three tiny drops fall into Peter's mouth. Lucy slowly, very slowly, lowered her arm and stuffed the cork messily back into the bottle, as if making the slightest noise could negate the cordial's effect. All three siblings waited, staring intently at their eldest brother, just waited. Seconds passed… Susan squeezed Edmund's arm so hard that it hurt him, but he didn't try to tell her to stop. Lucy just was frozen, staring, staring…

And then she went limp. Her small shoulders sagged and she bowed her head, and after a second a glimmering tear slipped quietly down to the tip of her nose and dropped gently to the ground. Edmund stared at her, feeling a dense lump materializing in his own throat. He shook his head slightly as he looked at his sister. She didn't even seem to be crying; tear after silent tear just slid slowly down her face.

Finally, Edmund did something that only days ago he never would have dreamed of doing: he reached over, gathered his little sister close, and hugged her as tight as he could. Lucy made no resistance; she merely bit her lip and let out a little sob. Edmund squeezed her, placing his chin on top of her head, clamping his eyes shut in attempt to stem the tears that threatened to flow. He sniffed a little as Lucy buried her face in her hands, crying. Edmund gulped hard and finally whispered hoarsely, "I'm sorry, Lu." He turned his head and pressed his cheek into her brown hair. "I'm sorry."

Susan was just in a daze, staring at her older brother's face. She couldn't believe it. This could _not_ be happening! She was almost in denial, such was her resolve to believe that this was just a horrible nightmare, and that any minute now Peter was going to leap to his feet and laugh and tell them all that it was just a joke, he was actually fine. But deep, deep down inside, Susan knew – knew at the very bottom of her heart – that it wasn't going to end that way. And as much as she hoped, wished with all her _soul_ that it were otherwise, she knew that whether she liked it or not, she was now the eldest Pevensie.

She swayed slightly on the spot then for an instant, as though she might faint, but did not; giving a small sniff, she reached out with a trembling hand and gently wiped a bit of blood from the corner of Peter's mouth with her long sleeve. Suddenly, she couldn't take it anymore; she broke down and sobbed, leaning over her younger siblings and embracing them both. She wept, shaking, trembling, but still trying to stay strong, or at least as strong as she could. She held Edmund and Lucy close as she could without smothering them, and all three of them stayed there for what may have been minutes, or perhaps a thousand years. None of then knew; none of them cared.

Then a great shadow passed over the children, and Susan, Edmund, and Lucy all looked up. Aslan, the Great Lion, stood in the vibrant light of the setting sun, golden eyes filled with pain. He took a single step towards the trio and stood close to them, gazing sadly at the body of the young man who lay in the grass. He placed a paw gently on the shoulder of the youngest Pevensie. At the touch, Lucy's eyes filled with tears anew; she gulped and looked away.

All four of them – the three children and the Great Lion – stayed there silently, as the chill wind whispered across the battlefield and the sun set blood red over the horizon, catching fire to the sky. There was a slight pause, then Aslan finally said, very softly, "I'm so sorry, children." They were not empty words, as so often a stranger's pretended sympathy is when something bad has happened to you; one needed only listen to his voice to know that he truly shared their pain.

Susan sniffed slightly, letting go of her siblings. She leaned over and wrapped her arms around Aslan's great neck. "No, Aslan," she whispered, her voice cracking as it made its way through her tight throat, _"I'm _sorry. Your prophecy was wrong."

Aslan turned his noble head to look her in the eye. She gulped and continued, "We were not the ones. Four humans must rule at Cair Paravel, but we are not them. We are not destined to be, we never were. We don't belong here. I… I'm sorry." Her voice was so soft by the time she finished, it nearly wasn't there at all.

Aslan continued to gaze at her with those great golden eyes for a moment, then slowly shook his head. He stepped away then, and Susan let go, wrapping her arms around her younger siblings once again. All three children watched as he slowly strode away, gazing towards the bloody sun setting in the west and the faint stars just beginning to appear in the rapidly expanding night sky. He continued to walk, making his way up the slope to the highest peak overlooking the rocky battlefield. He stood there, the breeze stirring his mane, and stared straight into the sun for an instant, as though it held some ancient secret that could be found somehow it if you looked hard enough.

And then he raised his head and let out a roar that shook the mountains and caused the mightiest oaks to tremble where they stood. All of Narnia heard, and all raised their heads to listen to the song of the Lion, gliding across the land. It went on, instilling in many a creature both feelings of sadness and, somehow, hope. The air was rent with the Lion's roar, a pained call of such beauty and sadness, and the sun seemed to grow a bit brighter as the stars rained down from the sky in a great show of light – almost as though the heavens themselves were weeping at the sound of the anguished song, the lament, of the Great Lion.

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**A/N: I honestly have no idea whether this is any good at all or if it totally sucks… I'm betting on the latter, personally. You might have noticed a style change somewhere in the middle; this story was completed over a span of several months, with the first part being done all at once, then the next part slowly finished over a few weeks, then the end done all at once again. My writing style changes depending on what mood I'm in, and obviously my mood would have been very different from month to month.**

**Please review and tell me honestly what you think. If it's really bad, say so; I won't take offense, I'll probably agree with you. Meh. :P**


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